A Day Out

Had a day out, with the DOB (dear old beloved) and my sister and her husband, to visit Pashley Manor gardens, last Saturday. The excursion turned out to be a proper "Curate's Egg".  The outward journey was uneventful apart from the driver having problem getting the right gear and rustling through papers to find the proper route.  I could not understand why he didn't have a SatNav.

Pashley Manor, is a quite splendid building but unfortunately we only had access to the gardens.  A bit of a let down because we all like a nose at other peoples' possessions, don't we.

There was some compensation for this in the form of  an Arts and Crafts Fair run by a Contemporary Design Association.

After being processed through the entry point, and receiving the statutory lecture on do's and don't's, and the positioning of the facilities, we set-off for the, almost mandatory, visit to the convenience.

On the way we met this figure, and I'm not sure whether this was done by designed, but the siting of this sculpture struck me as being very carefully and cunningly thought out. It is a very clever piece of positioning, as it stands in place just outside the WCs., with a look of spiritual, cerebral and physical strain and contemplation and carries the titled, I think of "Reflection".  The sitting pose, with knees drawn up, hints at a discomfort that to  needs to be (to use an old one) worked out with logarithms or a pencil.

The borders were nicely maintained, weeded - which is not always the case with Gardens open to the public - and beautifully planted with plants that are, for the most part, freely available.  The main feature, however, was the statues - I don't propose to show them here, your can look them up on-line - that are strategically placed throughout the gardens.  A number of woodcarvings were featured in a wooded part of the garden, and I suspect for a limited period only because they were offered for sale.  Again the placing was carefully, cleverly, thought out because without exception they had that nymphy, greenman, middle-earth feel that appeals to our innerly suppressed tree-hugger souls.

I cannot leave without a mention of the craft fair, after-all I am a wood turner.  There was some very cleverly done stuff. but also a lot of pretension.  There were three Wood turners, one of which was displaying a little goblet on a 5 foot 6 inch stem - not my thing (did one with a 7 inch stem, didn't see the point of doing any more) but very skillful, nonetheless. Amongst the knitters, embroiderers, sewers, jewellery-makers, there were a couple of lead-light makers - this I found was quite interesting because at one time I worked for a firm of glaziers and we made lead-lights.  It was the turners that really were of interest to me, certainly two of them, and maybe, all three considered themselves as Artists rather than craftsmen, and charged their prices accordingly.  The DOB summed it up when she picked up  a 10 or 11 inch bowl, looked at the price and said - in that voice that penetrates lead - , "...how much; £70, yours are much better and you give them away...".  The guy on the stall looked a little put out, perhaps because he had one or two interested punters.  I don't think he was absolutely pacified when I told him that I was a turners and she was a critic.

The homeward journey was something that no-one anticipated, not even the DOB, the arch-pessimist, expected what we got. We were supposed to have gone for afternoon tea, but the coach expired. it was struck down into immobility with a loss of revs that could not be recovered.  A two hour wait ensued and the tedium was only partially relieved by frustration of other motorists trying to squeeze past us. A new, but very much older, coach eventually arrived and we were quickly on our way, but with the Afternoon Tea stop no longer a possibility most peoples' thoughts were being concentrated on the need to empty out  rather then fill up.  The driver offered a stop in Tunbridge Wells or the Services on the M25 - we opted for the latter.  Not the right choice.  Everyone was off the coach in record time with slightly squeezed faces and smartly back on with relieved smiles anticipating a relatively short journey home.  How wrong could we be?  The driver just could not get the coach into reverse - every gear went forward - that would have been OK except for a "Bloody Great Cast Iron Pole" that was in the way.  After listening to a one-sided conversation, that had it's own entertainment value, we decided to get off the coach and push it backwards so that it could drive forwards.

We eventually got home, and the letters of complaint will (are), no doubt, duly be(ing) written and the organisers will come to some arrangement, but I wonder was the experience of more value as a story to be told the grand kids, or anybody else that will listen, than any compensation we receive?

How Do They Do That?

What keeps them up? This is a serious enquiry. I feel that there is a yawning gap in my understanding and my appreciation of sartorial styles and the cultures of minorities and age groups. As everyone knows and understands, I have a thirst for learning and I’ve always been one to reach out to the generations and to try and understand them and their culture and for the most part I get on pretty well with not only my children's age group, but also grandchildren’s. Indeed, my teenage grand kids themselves do not feel embarrassed by Granddad with his contrasting styles of dress. But now that I’m reaching that stage in life where I want trousers, Betjeman like, with a higher waistband and more bum room, I find I'm looking at some youngsters' cacks with amazement. The low slung crutch and the tight legs give every appearance that they were designed to fit a chimpanzee, but that is one thing that maybe dismissed as being purely stylistic. The positioning of the waistband is, however, something quite different. It is worn in a place that does not seem to fit with the natural shape of the human body. It is like wearing a wristwatch on the biceps or the ankle, it does the job but not very well. Are they simply kept in position by being belted and tighten below the buttocks and across the manhood, or does something else happen that escapes me? Are they comfortable being worn like that? Can you run, dance, leap, jump, climb with your breeks in that position? How do you get things out of you pockets, indeed can you carry anything of substance in your pockets? Everybody, I've noticed wearing their trews in this way, all appear to be very slim; can fat boys wear them like that? And finally, how do they pee, or do they sit like girls?

Posing

I'm grateful for the comments I've had about some of my Sepia postings.  I like to try to put alternative thoughts into the subjects' minds and try to read the other them below the surface. Even if you strip away the clothes, the hairstyles, the backdrops and props, there remains a difference that is not entirely accounted for by pose and social attitude.  I think it is down to technology, the modern camera is simply too good at copying the image and that is it's downfall.  It has depth of vision, perspective and clarity that old cameras lacked

Enough, enough of that, back to the theme.

The two photos below are of my Great, Great Aunt Barbara taken, I'd guess, about 1880s and 1920s.



In this picture she is a young girl 18 or 20 or so, and she is quite clearly enjoying having her photo taken.  The nonchalant stance, a hint of a suppressed smile, the just off the camera look, her dress and her bonnet seemed to be a construction that says, ".... look, look,...this is me..."

Even as a North Yorkshire country girl from a small village, she seems to have had a style about her and to be up with fashion, and I would suggest well aware of her femininity.

In this picture, unfortunately not a very good image as I had to

scan it from a photocopy  and not the actual photo.

If I'm correct about the dates, Barbara appears still appears to be quite fashionable, which is perhaps more than can be said for her son Billy and his Dexters(?)

A Third of a Tithe???

In the wider Bloggery, words blurring into obsolescence have recently been brought back into focus for another brief outing.  Not that old words have much to do with this piece other than I'm a turner of sorts, that is to say a maker of Treen or, perhaps, even a Treensmith.   Now treen, according to my 1932 New English Dictionary is "..an obsolete territorial division in the Isle of Man, the third of of a Tithe..", but we all know that it means wooden, or rather non-furniture domestic items made of  wood.  It is usually used about antique Victorian or Edwardian pieces such as little boxes, pots, bowls, stirrers, games such as billy buckets, not always turned and often country made.
As a turner of small pieces, they must all be treen no matter how much artistic intent I attached to them and no matter how much I decorate them.  Rather humbling for those of us that have moved from craft to art and have studios instead of workshops.

What I try to do is to take something like this log that I picked up from a wood pile on a Farm where the contractors had dumped it, and turn it in to a something like this.

That's the theory, and for the most part it works out just fine.  In this case I really should learn my woods.  I'm not sure what the log was from, but it held water like a sponge and the end grain was like turning feathers, it was stringy in the extreme.  What it is I'm still not sure, perhaps, willow or maybe, poplar.  What ever it was I'll try to avoid it in future.

The process is straightforward.  Take a log, about as long as it is wide, split down the middle and through the heart wood and mount it on the lathe with the bark side facing out.  Rough out a bowl shape with a spigot.  Turn it over and mount spigot in the chuck and rough out the bowl.  Leave the blank about an inch thick, wrap in newspaper and leave to dry for about a month or so.  That was done but in this case, perhaps because of the high water content, the blanks were covered in a black and white furry mildew.  What we have to do for our art or craft.

Seriously Sitting

Whilst it is generally accepted that the arrival of the Itinerant Photographer was  met with people flocking to his mobile studio to have their pictures taken, the pictures themselves would indicate that some met their fate with fear and trepidation.  Indeed, the expressions on some faces suggest that they were forced into it and made to sit for fear of something far worse.

Not only does this image give an indication of severe strain it also seems to show signs that her mind is being controlled, by other forces, through the receiver on her head. All sense of self has been removed and they've have made her dress up with a tasseled table cloth cross her lap. Not even the rather nice turning on the table's single leg and the comfortable looking chair can offer her any release from her torment.
 

I wonder what actually goes through their minds when the photographer tells them to hold that pose,  Perhaps, it might be more important to consider what went through his, when it said, "...hold ..".   Was he trying to artistic in creating the pose or was he simply interested in business and in getting a sharp image, and instructed his victims to keep absolutely still for fear of blur. The younger girl, standing, seems to be saying I must not smile, I must not be seen to be happy, the neighbours will think I'm are frivolous and flighty.  I must remain stiffly unnatural.  The other seems to be resigned to her fate and has taken on the look of resigned acceptance.

Clearly unhappy for being put through such an embarrassment, whoever made her have her picture taken will be be made to suffer.  This is a face that shows no sign of forgiveness.  She is unlikely to ever be seen singing, "....Always look on the bright side of life..."  Indeed it looks as if life is to be suffered, and that she has a divine mission to make sure we do.

Hats are Hardly Worn These Days

Hats, are hardly worn these days except perhaps at Christenings, Weddings and funerals and then generally only by women, and Ascot where the imaginations runs rampant in it's attempt to cover the female head.  For the man the Topper remains exclusively supreme.  As recently as the fifties, hats were commonly worn.  Workingmen in flat caps or maybe trilbies, and the city gent in his bowler.  Today a few old men may be seen in either cap or trilby, but generally if a hat is worn it is just as likely to be that ugliest of American imports, the baseball cap.  It is not so much a hat as a peak with a crown attached - a variant, and a not very good one, on the croupier's visor.

Our ancestor wore hats of infinite variety, they wore them pride and without any feeling of self-consciousness.  Just look at a few examples;

Quite what this is is not clear, her outfit has an almost Eastern European appearance, it is uniform like.  The Hat is different, almost representing a dish with a sleeping duck or crumpled rag on top. 
Looking at this you begin to understand what prompted the penning of "Where did you get that Hat?"

The picture does not make it clear but this looks like a a straw hat with a low crown it appears to be just perching on top of her head rather than being worn. Not a hat for a windy day.  She has a rather wistful look, has she just been to Chapel to be confirmed or dedicated.

 What can she be? a cyclist or a Sunday School Teacher. She seems to have a deliberate stand-offish look in her slightly masculine garb

A Creation fit, almost, for Ascot

The Bowler was introduced for Game-Keepers before becoming more widely accepted as a workingman's hat.  Later it became the almost exclusive reserve of the city gent, the bank manger and the Brigade of Guards.

A workingman1920s or 30s. Could be a Factory worker, farmhand, building worker, gardener in their Sunday best or a grocer or shopkeeper in the working clothes without an apron.

A soldier with his wife, or Sister, perhaps before a departure for active service.

 A more regal looking lady, is it her from the Big House?

 A young girl with a sun, or is it rain, Hat

Two lower middle class housewives out shopping.

Hacking Cover-ups

Am I just too, too cynical; or are these latest comments, about the recent revelations in the Screws of the Week hacking and cover-up story, actually sincere.  They seem to be greeted with surprise that a newspaper could hack into someone phone, but isn't that what they do and have done since forever.  How does it differ from acquiring information from other dodgy source - isn't the trade concerned with dishing the dirt on all and sundry- and covering it up until they're forced to pay for it.  This latest exposure only seems to differ in it depth and extent.

Of course, along side, we have the injunction and super injunction to protect the rich and famous who lie and cheat and betray those closest to them, from the muck-rakers.  I'm afraid it is just the two sides of the same festering malaise, the rot in Society, it is part of the moral decline that our politicians have suddenly discovered.

On the one side we have the indolent idle that bewail their lack of opportunity whilst decaying prostrate in their pits.  Unfortunately the only sign of ambition or get-up and go is when they riot.  On the other hand is greedy, grasping, self-seeking mass of personality that bleed the country, think they're above the law and entitled to special treatment to hide their true natures.  If the don't want exposure they should keep their flies done-up and their mouths and their legs shut, their hands out of others' pockets and their fist out of somebody Else's face.

Of course, none of this would be possible without the so-called silent majority.  We earn the wealth for the Government to tax and to pay benefits to the indolent and for the rich and famous to bleed.  We pay to see their shenanigans, we pay to see over-priced footballers, entertainers and all manner charlatan, we buy the papers that expose their indiscretions, so perhaps we are to blame.  We allow the television companies to fill our screens with pulp and pap.  We allow them to dull our senses with cheap fly on the wall shows, shows about antiques, house purchases. moving home, cooking, soaps and far worse than that we even put up with endless repeats of the same.  I often wonder how long it will be before they start repeating the news.